Repercussions
by LondonBelow
Summary: Movieverse. Faramir led his men out in the face of impossible odds. Now he must deliver news of their deaths to their families.


Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof  
  
Author's note: The names in this story are not particularly Middle-earth like. I found that most name generators gave elaborate names, and none seemed to fit the family.  
  
*****  
  
Faramir stood in the doorway. "You sent for me, my lord?" he asked  
  
Elessar grimaced but, for once, did not ask to be addressed by his name in place of a title. He looked up from the damage report on his desk and gestured to the chair opposite him. "Have a seat," he said. Faramir crossed the room stiffly and perched on the edge of the chair, falling into his defensive manner of obedient, albeit absent.  
  
"Faramir...I want to speak to you about your tactical decisions in the war."  
  
In spite of the propaganda of phrasing being employed here, Faramir felt the shame again. He remembered visiting his uncle in Dol Amorth as a child. "Never take your eyes off the ocean," he had been warned, but after impulsively running into the waves full-clothed and tripping over his own feet, Faramir did turn his back on the water--only to have a considerably sized wave come crashing down on him. That was the feeling of his shame now, another drop in the barrel--but a significant drop nevertheless.  
  
The King was not stupid. He saw the Steward's emotions clearly, and though he considered Faramir's feelings this conversation must be had. Perhaps the cushioned speech would not prove the best approach, though. "You led your men against an enemy whose numbers exponentially outstripped yours. Why?"  
  
"Sir?" Faramir asked in surprised. Why? Momentarily this threw him off his balance. The previous Steward of Gondor always saw Faramir as two things: his son, and insufficient. The question of why never arose. Quickly Faramir recovered, "The importance of the outer defenses was brought to my attention. I took a calculated risk to recover them."  
  
Elessar shook his head. "Steward Faramir, perhaps you recall that Peregrin Took was present for the exchange between you and your sire which spurred this decision. He has recounted the events to me. It does sound from his account, with no accusation intended, as though a decision was made to please Steward Denethor against the better judgment of his captain."  
  
No accusation intended? Faramir thought bitterly. I should hate to be accused by him!  
  
"There is no choice for a captain who receives orders from his lord. Perhaps you do not understand the ways of the military; I know not of the society of Dunedain." Faramir's ignorance was faked. Both men knew this. "Steward Denethor gave orders often in roundabout manners. I followed his orders."  
  
Elessar saw the fruitlessness of continuing this conversation: although Faramir did not see his actions as correct, he would defend them as such to the death. Faramir defended, Elessar realized, not his actions but those of his father. "Very well. Thank you for your thoughts on the matter, Steward Faramir."  
  
At this dismissal Faramir stood, bowed, and headed for the door. "One final question, if you would?" Elessar asked. Faramir froze. The elder man took a deep breath. Ever had he run from honour and prestige. Now he would call into question a reputation he had fled from. "Did you ever hear from your brother or your father of Thorongil?"  
  
"Of course," Faramir answered, more snippish than he intended. "Boromir spoke of him as a hero and the Steward spoke of him as a villain. Boromir had tinted memories; he had been very young at the time."  
  
Elessar nodded. "Interesting...I knew him."  
  
This peaked Faramir's interested. "Did you?" he asked, speaking before thinking.  
  
"Yes." In Rivendell, Boromir had recognized Elessar as Thorongil. Faramir, a stranger safe by stories, of course did not. "He never thought himself a villain. Do you suppose he understood the workings of the Gondorian military?"  
  
Faramir bit his lip. "Yes, he was a captain."  
  
"A captain who wore a silver star on his cloak," Elessar said. This earned the expected response: Faramir raised his eyebrows in surprise. Unsure of how to phrase the truth precisely, Elessar simply smiled for a moment. "I am Thorongil. Captain, same as you."  
  
Faramir stammer, searching for some excuse, "Sire, when--when I said Thorongil was a villain, I..." The strangest thing was that Faramir did not doubt him. The detail of the star certainly was not particularly convincing- -that sort of information might be gathered anywhere--but something, the shy sincerity, timid yet touched by pride.  
  
"I have been honest with you in the hope that you will see the danger you put your men in. Perhaps from another captain, this observation may be worth something. Your men trusted you and you led them to their deaths in a battle you could not win."  
  
His gaze floating from the room to the window, to the Pelennor fields, Faramir said, "I abused that trust. I understand."  
  
"Faramir, I did not ask you here today to make you feel awful. You will remain a Captain and a respected man, but you must think before making decisions that will result in the loss of lives. There is no greater price to pay than a man's life." Elessar stopped himself. He meant for Faramir to understand, not to break under guilt.  
  
Faramir closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm his heart, pouncing about his chest like a rabbit. He straightened his shoulders. "What are the repercussions of my lapse in judgment, my liege?" he asked.  
  
Elessar, too, paused before speaking. The pain he knew this would cause weighed heavily on his conscience--as the lives of those men weighed heavily on Faramir's. "You are to deliver the news of these deaths to the families of your men."  
  
"I am to apologize?" Faramir asked.  
  
"No. That is not your place. But with the post-war commotion...Have you slept in the past three days?"  
  
Three days! Could the war have been so short a period past? "In all honesty, I have not," Faramir answered.  
  
"Nor I. Your men had wives, some of them children, who await news of their husbands and fathers. Think how lucky we are to know the fates of our kin."  
  
Later, Elessar thought over his words and kicked himself. "Must all politics feel so awfully dirty?" he asked no-one in particular.  
  
"No," came the unexpected answer, "but in general, they will."  
  
Elessar grinned. "So that's love, is it? Telling me I am awful?" he joked.  
  
Arwen sighed. "Are you going to look at me?" Though Elessar was lying flat on his back and could not see her, he knew by her voice that she had her hands on her hips. Arwen sighed, inferring an answer. She settled beside him, not physically touching him but at the least being there, physically and emotionally. "My mother said to my father when he lost his temper unfairly with one of us children, 'You are corrupted by politics.' If she was very angry with him and he would not repent, she would take us to Lothlorien."  
  
"As much a trickster as him."  
  
"She fought much dirtier. I wish you could have known Lady Celebrían. She knew where she stood and fought to keep that ground. Lady Celebrían could do truly terrible things and not regret them at all, like when she used us to fight him with us."  
  
Elessar did not understand. "Yet you loved her."  
  
"I love her still. Sometimes, Estel, you must take a side."  
  
"Tell me this story in full."  
  
Arwen closed her eyes. "No. We all have our demons. There is a trick in learning to harness them."  
  
"Teach me?" Elessar asked. "Please teach me."  
  
Arwen rolled onto her side and placed an arm over him, then moved that her head was beside him. "Just listen," she whispered. "Listen to my breathing. Feel my heart beat. Think nothing else until you fall asleep."  
  
For the first time in many days, Elessar slept.  
  
*  
  
Faramir took a deep breath. The sun had set and he was still out, going from door to door in the lower circles, telling the families of his men that their husbands, fathers and sons would not be coming home. Here at the last house, at the end of this torture, Faramir took a moment to rebuild his stone interior. Only one more crying widow, one more bereaved mother, one more defunct son. It had been an afternoon of tears and shrieks. Faramir hoped he had the strength to comfort one last woman. He knocked.  
  
The door was answered by a small, gaunt-faced girl of perhaps four years, who stared at him with sunken eyes. For a moment Faramir stood unable to speak, then a call came from within the room, "Who is it, Chava? Let in our visitor."  
  
The little girl opened the door wider. Faramir just managed to enter the room before Chava closed the door, then ran over to sit on a pile of bedding with a boy of such similar features he could only have been her brother. The boy seemed to understand who Faramir was, if not why he had come, and he straightened his posture as though he could, in doing so, hide the squalor he lived in.  
  
Faramir did not think himself a judgmental man, but he had much trouble observing this house without pity. The mother of the two children sat by the fireplace, really more of an indoor firepit, stirring a cauldron with a long-handled wooden spoon. A baby slept, his hands curled around the mother's neck. The entire family clearly lived in this one room. Other than the pile of bedding on which the children played and the three-legged stool on which the mother sat, there were only two articles of furniture in the room: one for the storage of food and the other what Faramir knew to be called a 'hope chest.'  
  
"Captain Faramir?" the woman asked.  
  
Faramir fought to keep his face expressionless. "Yes, ma'am."  
  
She nodded. "I am glad. Lavey spoke often of you. He held you in the highest of respects. He said to me once, 'I do not know that I like I must give my life for my country. But if I must do it, there is none I druther give it under than Captain Faramir.'" With that she turned to face him, and he saw sorrow embedded in her features but no tears in her eyes.  
  
"Lavey fought bravely..." Faramir tried feebly.  
  
The little boy leapt from his place upon the bedding and stood with his eyes blazing. "Go away!" he said. "You are not welcome here."  
  
"Eben!" the woman scolded.  
  
Eben turned to his mother, his tiny hands balled into fists. "Mama, he is saying..."  
  
"I know, sweetling. Come." She held out her arm to Eben and he went to her and sobbed silently against her. Chava also went to her mother, because although she did not understand that her father would not be coming home, she understood that her big brother was crying and so it must be terrible.  
  
"Thank you for bringing this news to us, Captain. It has been a pleasure meeting you, albeit unfortunate under the circumstances."  
  
Shaken more by her stoicism than anything else, Faramir nodded, bowed, and took his leave of the house. In the street, he found an alley, sank to his knees and hugged himself as he cried, silent and dry. In the first circle of Minas Tirith, Faramir, Steward of Gondor, learned the true value of a human life.  
  
*****  
  
The End 


End file.
